In the moments before the day begins, I am alone.
Almost full moon still visible through
the narrow slit of a window in the back of the house.
Dawn breaks in an instant:
Look out one window and it’s dark,
turn to another and it’s light,
morning flooding the side yard,
instant time travel.
Wet leaves cling to everything this morning,
so much rain last night,
we had to stand outside to
watch it fall on streets flooded with lamplight.
It’s been years now since that fall day I cried
with joy because we moved in,
because we came home
to this town, the only one that
has ever felt like home.
A week ago I stood in
the acoustic room of the Martin Guitar Factory
holding one guitar by its neck
while my husband played another.
It thrummed in my hand
like a living thing,
its vibrations a call and response to the other guitar,
as though they were partners,
as though they could finish each other’s sentences,
as if one could translate for the other.
The house will wake,
I know this the way the dog knows this:
she stretches and sighs in preparation.
Feet will find their way down stairs and into kitchens
as if it is inevitable, a call and response,
the period at the end of my sentence.
About the Poet: Jennifer Judge has taught creative writing and composition for 20 years at King’s College in Wilkes-Barre, PA. She earned her MFA from Goddard College. She lives in Dallas, PA with her husband and two daughters. Her work has been published in Literary Mama, Blueline, Mothers Always Write, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Every Pigeon! and Rhino.
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